


because you love him

by murdermewithbooks



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:06:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28065198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murdermewithbooks/pseuds/murdermewithbooks
Summary: ***SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER 15***The lighting is dim but still bright enough that you can clearly see Din sitting at the foot of the cot, his beskar from the waist up—save for his helmet—having been removed and placed neatly to the side. His head is angled downward as he slowly removes his gloves, and you can just make out the ends of the curls at his neck peeking beneath his helmet.
Relationships: Din Djarin & You, Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, The Mandalorian/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 100





	because you love him

“So…what now?” you ask no one in particular, though your eyes are set on the T of Din’s visor. Everyone turns to him as he pushes off the wall he was leaning against. He places the data stick with Moff Gideon's—and Grogu's—coordinates onto the small strategy table.

“Now, we rescue the kid…and kill Moff Gideon,” his voice, though calm and even, holds an edge that sends chills down your spine. Fennec and Cara, on the other hand, nod with confidence and matching stone expressions. 

“Well, we’re at least a day’s travel away from their location so settle in, everyone,” Boba Fett speaks up from the pilot’s seat as he sends the ship into hyperspace. You glance over at Din to find his helmet aimed your way and though you can’t know for sure, you suspect he’s watching you as closely as you’ve been watching him. But then without another word, he turns on his heel and heads to the back of the ship where Boba’s modest quarters reside, which he had insisted was available for any of you to use. 

Everyone goes their own way—Fennec to the co-pilot’s seat, Cara on a thin mat by the wall and already fast asleep by the time her head touches the ground—leaving you to fend for yourself. Wringing your hands together, you steel yourself before following Din’s path down a short ladder into the small space.. 

The lighting is dim but still bright enough that you can clearly see Din sitting at the foot of the cot, his beskar from the waist up—save for his helmet—having been removed and placed neatly to the side. His head is angled downward as he slowly removes his gloves, and you can just make out the ends of the curls at his neck peeking beneath his helmet. 

But you don’t need to rely much on imagination anymore—not since you saw his face, clear as day, just a few hours ago when you, he, and Mayfeld broke into that refinery. It was completely unexpected and definitely not planned, but when the time came to decide what mattered most—finding Grogu or preserving his identity—you knew in a heartbeat which path Din would choose. You would have done the scan on yourself if there wasn’t a chance your name would come up in the system and alert the entire base of your team’s intrusion.

As you watch Din toss his gloves to the side with a wince, you wonder if maybe you _should have_ taken that risk. But it’s too late for that now. 

Clearing your throat, you walk the rest of the way to his side, “You’re hurt.” When he remains silent, only acknowledging your comment with a slight shrug, you squat down in front of him and place a hand on his beskar-covered thigh. You can’t help but see his handsome features when you look up at him—the vivid image of him standing helmetless before that Imperial officer, still at the forefront of your mind. 

“It’s just a scratch,” he rasps through his vocoder, his words laced with exhaustion. You raise an eyebrow at him before reaching up and gently probing his left bicep—right where one of those pirates landed a crushing blow when Din wasn’t looking. He flinches before snatching your wrist with his other hand, keeping you from examining his wound any further.

“Right…just a scratch,” you respond with a slight purse of your lips. His fist clenches, the muscles in his arm tensing beneath your hand. He finally relents with a half-hearted sigh and gestures to the crate behind you where a medkit lies open, its supplies ready for use. While you gather the necessary materials, Din carefully slips his arm from the sleeve of his flight suit, leaving the material bunched at his shoulder and over his chest. 

This isn’t the first time you’ve had to patch him up after a fight. But the fact that you’ve seen what’s beneath the helmet that’s mere inches away from you is enough to make you tremble. Every detail of his face is burned into your memory and you couldn’t forget it even if you wanted to—not the set of eyes the shade of dark chocolate morsels you enjoyed as a child, or the lips that even at rest offer a slight pout to anyone caught staring, or the brow that undoubtedly has become permanently furrowed after years of constant vigilance and countless brushes with death, and certainly not the sharp nose that offsets the softness of his cheeks, bringing an exquisite balance to his features. 

As your hands start to shake, you tell yourself it’s because of the freezing temperature inside the ship and _not_ because of the man you’ve grown to admire during your short time together. You finish cleaning up the gash in his arm and begin applying bacta spray when he says quietly, “I thought it would feel…different…when I took it off.”

You freeze for a second with your hands hovering over his bicep until you realize he’s referring to the moment he pulled off his helmet. “H-How so?” you ask with hesitation, not wanting to pry but also intrigued by his thoughts on the matter. You continue tending to his wound as he answers, “I’m not sure. I thought I would feel…shame—dishonor, for breaking my Creed. But I didn’t feel any of that. In fact, I–I barely even hesitated.”

You nod slowly as you place the first bandage. “Because you did it for Grogu,” you say before you can stop yourself. His helmet angles down toward you, but he doesn’t say anything, so you quietly continue, “I mean, you’re like a father to him…but he’s also like a son to you, at least from what I’ve seen.” Placing the final bacta patch on his arm, you examine your handiwork while averting his burning gaze.

Your heart begins to race when his other hand slowly reaches for one of yours, calling your attention back to the visor of his helmet. He nods once, urging you to say what’s on your mind. And you just _know_ your eyes are connected with his, even through the barrier of his helmet, as you whisper, “You love him, and that love that you have for…for your son, is _far_ greater than any amount of fear or shame that tries to overshadow it.”

The blood rushing in your ears is deafening to the point of lightheadedness. It’s moments later that you realize you’ve risen on your knees and are now at eye level with the Mandalorian, his hand securely wrapped around yours like a vice, almost to the point of pain. But instead of pulling away, you inch closer towards him until your forehead rests against his helmet.

His chest rises and falls at a rapid pace, the heat from his body instantly warming yours. Swallowing hard, you ignore the butterflies in your stomach as you rasp, “And if it’s any consolation, Din–” you snake a hand up towards his neck, pausing briefly until he offers a subtle nod before you continue to cup his jaw beneath the helmet, “I–I think you’re beautiful, with _and_ without the helmet.”

His breath softly hitches as your thumb strokes just below his cheekbone, the soft stubble you find there tickling your skin. It feels like ages before he clears his throat and whispers, “Thank you,” referring to more than just your compliment of his looks. 

You pull back and offer him a small smile, your cheeks growing warm as his thumb caresses along your knuckles. “I—you should get some rest. Save up your strength for the…the rescue mission,” you ramble as you quickly clean up the medkit supplies. By the time you turn back to Din, his shirt is all straightened out and he looks good as new—even his posture looks as though he’s more sure of himself than he was just moments ago.

Before you can step back any further, he catches your wrist and stands to his full height. The space of the room is compact at best and clearly not built for two fully grown adults. With Din’s chest practically flush against yours, he asks in a soft voice, “Will you stay…with me?” 

Something in his tone leads you to believe he’s referring to some time beyond the next few hours. Whatever his meaning, your answer would still be the same. “Of course. I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me,” you admit a little too eagerly, making him chuckle softly as he walks around the cot and effortlessly removes the last of his beskar.

You remove your own holster and weapons as well before sitting on the opposite side of the bed. He lies flat on his back, his uninjured arm extending towards you and offering his hand. Releasing a breath—along with a healthy dose of nerves—you settle into his side, careful to avoid his injury as you find a comfortable position.

You’ve been this close to him only once before—the day Grogu was taken. Din hardly said a word at the time, which isn’t exactly unusual for him. But the desperate way he had held you in his arms—like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality—spoke more words than any verbal confession or soliloquy could even fathom to express.

As his breaths begin to even out, you allow yourself to imagine a life just like this—you in Din’s arms and Grogu safe in his bunk, or more likely, nestled between you and his father. Your arm unconsciously tightens around Din’s middle, and he too holds you closer to his chest, his thumb lightly stroking your arm.

And the two of you rest as you travel through hyperspace, eager to find the child— _Din’s_ child—and bring him home.


End file.
